That You Get

A knot of twigs in the oak
Like the eye of a web—

You could think of that one soul
You know left at your age,

Just a day or two gone by.
Think and say, that was all,

Poor soul, all the sad, fine times—
That was all that you get.

Dawn turns white clouds grey and red.
The light of your next day

Is here, and the web of twigs
In the bare oak lights up

With that odd sense, what just is
And all you get to get.